


don't let the sun set on us

by kevystel



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Commitment, Domestic, Established Relationship, Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:52:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kevystel/pseuds/kevystel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France has never been good with commitment. Deanon from the kink meme, November 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't let the sun set on us

**Author's Note:**

> 'I would love to see France trying to commit with another nation but struggling with that.  
> He is the nation of love, he loves everything beautiful and wonderful and it makes him struggle with himself about being monogamous and commit with another person. Intimacy issues too, he cannot connect very well when making love even if he tries hard.  
> Bonus if the other person becomes aware of his problems and forces him to confront them.'

Paris hums in his bones, at his fingertips. It gives him warmth. France purrs, nestled close and soft within his thick coat like a cat in furs — the coat England bought for him last Christmas with a scowl and a sharp push in the chest when France teased him for it, _don’t get too cocky, frog_. That too — it’s warm, and rests heavy on his shoulders like a secret. He could sleep like this. Instead he leans on the back of the cool seat and counts the stops until his station.

Between his palms France cradles a latte, tired fingers wrapping around the heat — he winked at the girl behind the counter and she gave it to him for free. Wrote her number on the receipt, too, and perhaps it’s still in his coat pocket, perhaps he dropped it in the streets on his way to the Métro. Doesn’t remember. He keeps little things like these sometimes, just because. France could make an exhibition of them: collected over the ages. 

England waits for him outside the station. _Never let it be said that an Englishman is not a gentleman_ , he said the first time, half-hidden in the hint of a very faint grin; but now it’s with weary exasperation that he greets France’s drowsy, hazy smile. _(Took you long enough.)_ His fingers close over France’s wrist and he walks with a slight lilt in his step, slow, swaying a little, rubbing his eyes — he’s tired himself, don’t you know? Yawn. The jingle of keys between them. France could set a clock by their old, familiar routine, he’d do it with his eyes closed.

‘Drink your coffee, it’s getting cold,’ England orders absently, fumbling because he keeps forgetting where he put his keys. France tastes sweet and thick and foam. The evening’s city lights paint him slick with inky shadows. Across the street, a woman wearing a grey scarf is searching her purse, and France watches her, leaning against the frame, till England creaks the door open and drags him in.

England sleeps curled into the sheets, one hand flung out on the covers. Moonlight slanting through the high French windows. France sleeps curled around him, nose cold in the hollow of England’s neck and shoulder, contented, like a cat. The air between them is heavy with scent and sex. Worth it, for the slow pleasure of pushing his mouth against gold hair. He’s always been like this — generous to his lovers, sleeping and cuddling the way they do, and staying the night when he’s wanted. 

In the morning England will wake first, and kick France out of bed. They’ll argue over breakfast and over England’s silly tea and France’s silly pastries, and perhaps have another fight, with the ease of longtime enemies. And it’s something to be treasured, this: England blinking, and swearing in the sunlight, nose all scrunched up in frustration at France’s grin and good food, and slapping his hand away when France goes for his back pocket. 

* * *

England is very rarely in the mood to be a cocktease, but the night is slow and cool and dim and the television is blaring from the hall, France’s abandoned paperwork scattered over the table, he’ll hide from his boss’ wrath all of next Monday — England in his apartment, looking up at him with eyes heavy-lidded, and deliberately sitting on one of France’s half-open magazines (France smacks him for it). 

‘My dear,’ France murmurs, one arm slung over the back of the couch. England obligingly lifts his hand so France can suck on his fingers. ‘Must you do that every time?’ 

‘Fuck you. Budge over.’ 

‘Oh. No, no. _Non_ ,’ says France, a moment later, ‘we will not — not here, on my couch, my beautiful couch.’

‘ _How are you still talking_ ,’ says England through his teeth. He’s breathing slow and heavy. ‘Shut up. Oh fuck, _fuck_.’ 

‘Yes, but I don’t care. Get up. We will not _defile_ it —’ 

‘I’ll cook every night for the whole of next week if you don’t shut up.’ 

France laughs, says, ‘I’ll stop you,’ and slides to his knees beside the couch, smooth and practised. England sits up and opens his mouth; he’s cut off by the first lick and France’s mouth, his tongue, damp heat and _friction_ and the wet, obscene sounds. There’re his hands tangled in France’s hair, the strands of his ponytail coming undone and _gorgeous_ , and if England could form proper sentences right now, not that England isn’t enjoying himself but it isn’t polite to, well. To fuck someone’s throat like a, a — even if France swears he’ll let him. England goes slow but France won’t have it, loses himself in France’s swollen, smiling mouth and it’s only considerate to _warn_ your partner before you come, God. 

France swallows — swallows like he’s never been made for anything else — and smiles. England groans. 

‘I don’t like that,’ he says when he can breathe again, and pulls France up, lets him climb onto the couch. ‘Come here. No, you.’ 

‘ _There’s_ gratitude for you. You’re welcome.’

‘No, you bastard, that’s not what I _meant_. Get over — you know what I mean.’

‘I sincerely don’t.’ France is looking at him, puzzled and uncertain, and — you know, England wouldn’t complain but the way France does it is so impersonal, so _off_. It makes him feel cold and unpleasant inside. As if he should apologise for something he knows France won’t understand.

He slips his hand between them and pulls France close. They do it like — this, caught in each other’s heartbeats. France allows him to nuzzle briefly at his throat and find the pulse there, to feel France shudder and sigh with each flick of the wrist. Afterwards France rests his head against the back of the couch and smiles at him and there’s more feeling in that than anything, better than anything.

* * *

The conference is — almost — worse than anticipated. Germany throws them all out after three hours of petty quarrelling; France finds England in the hotel bar where various other nations have gathered, talking about nothing. Opposite, Veneziano is flirting with an Italian waitress, and France leans on the bar and winks. 

‘You bloody tosser,’ and England isn’t looking at him, staring off into the distance — towards the other Europeans with grim venom in his gaze. England doesn’t so much fortify himself as tear into anyone who happens to get in his way. ‘You didn’t wait for me.’ 

‘I thought I’d give you a few minutes to wallow in your own misery beforehand.’ France drops onto the stool beside him. ‘Sweetheart, a martini for me, _s’il vous plaît_.’ 

‘He doesn’t speak English, prat. I’ve tried.’

‘I imagine he was merely scared into silence by your monstrous eyebrows.’ France leans closer, beckoning, and whispers something that makes the boy blush and hurry to mix his drink. ‘Ah, see, I am right as usual.’ 

England turns slowly. His fingers are pressed to his temples. ‘Do you have to do this in front of me?’ 

‘Do you have to pretend to hate me at every conference?’ Purposefully he turns from England’s inevitable sneer, and lifts his glass in a toast to somebody across the room. England doesn’t move. ‘I’ll even do you a favour and say that the answer to both questions is yes. If only because you are a tight-arsed sour old man far too embarrassed about us for my liking.’ 

England shoots him a murderous glance. ‘It’s to keep up appearances, frog.’

‘Appearances? Are you listening to yourself? The whole of Europe has fought and fucked one another since the Middle Ages. No one will bother.’ France swirls the liquid in his glass for a sharp instant, and then, because they’ve never made much distinction between tenderness and vitriol, goes on, carefully calculated to hurt: 

‘The world doesn’t revolve around you, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

England falls into silence, which is rare. They settle into the full, contemplative stillness of former empires who’ve mellowed with age; it’s comfortable and if France squeezes his hand under the bartop nobody else seems to notice. After a moment, eyes squeezed shut, England speaks again. 

‘I’d like to throttle Germany.’

‘Now, now, my cherished savage. We both know you are only jealous because you want to be running this in his place.’ France breaks off, smile caught in a flash of skirts when one of the waitresses passes by, humming, and trailing perfume in her wake. ‘Look at her — over there, she is exquisite, _non_?’

‘Very young,’ England mutters, ‘and very French.’ 

‘You would say that. Be quiet.’ France, for the first time, looks at England properly. He’s quiet and tense, mouth clamped shut. France can feel the steady rise and fall of England’s breathing, close and warm as a cradle; he can see the mark left by England’s reading glasses all red and imperfect along the bridge of his nose. The light catches on his hair and it’s rumpled from stress and sleep but not sex, no matter how often France has been making eyes at him when Germany’s back is turned. France hasn’t felt his age in a long time, not like this.

Maybe, France thinks, this is wearing on England, who attempts isolation with a bullish stubbornness. England is proud at the worst of times, insecure and aggressive by turns — not likeable, oh, no. But loveable all the same. And France loves people, see, France lives for the soft touch of wrists and thighs, the drag of damp mouths on skin, swollen kisses pressed to jawlines. Waking up to a stranger’s gaze and quiet goodbyes. It’s a simple pleasure more than anything, like wine and the sharp, rich cologne France wears with his suits, the one England _hates_ because it sticks to his skin afterwards. 

Or maybe France is tired of not being allowed to touch England in public. Of being England’s closely guarded secret. 

‘You don’t, you know,’ says England in a tone that’s more weary than anything, ‘have to do. That.’ The glare he flings at the poor, oblivious waitress may burn her to ash on the spot. ‘ _Every fucking time_.’

France drains his glass and stands up. ‘Forgive me for trying to make this a little more bearable for myself. Simply to pass the time. You know I like doing it.’ 

England looks him straight in the eye and asks, ‘Do I bore you?’ 

‘What?’ 

‘What I just said.’ England steadfastly refuses to look at him. From a distance, France imagines they must look exactly as England wants them to: allies but not friends, resolutely not touching, bickering in low voices. ‘Do I bore you.’ He thinks for a second and adds, evidently as an afterthought, ‘Wanker.’ 

It’s so ridiculous that France has to laugh. ‘England,’ he bends and takes hold of the knot of England’s tie, enough to fool anyone into thinking it’s a threat of choking but up close it’s really _not_ , ‘if I didn’t have you around for the past thousand years to fight my armies and butcher my language and generally drive me insane,’ the frown lingering on England’s mouth is twisted and all kinds of perfect and France would like very much to kiss it off, ‘I should have faded into nothing long ago.’ 

England pretends not to look relieved. France saves the expression on England’s face, for a rainy day, and it’ll fester alongside the rest of the small memorials they’ve taken from each other, imprinted through centuries of warfare and everything else.

* * *

England walks out on him after a prolonged fight sometime in the latter part of the year which was far too long in coming. They quarrel bone-deep and bitter as always, not quite longbows and cavalry charges, but France remembers. His throat is raw by the time one of them shoves the other into the wall, over the smash of plates, and oh, _there_ it is: another mess, a constant, more permanent than their ever-shifting homes.

It’s a stupid fight. It spills forth, frankly, all the irritation bubbling under his skin — from England’s thumb brushing his wrist in front of the telly some evenings, legs drawn up to himself on the couch, England reading in bed, their toothbrushes knocking together behind the sink. England’s in his home and looking at him from across the Channel at the same time, England’s hovering at the edges of his vision just before France turns round; he can’t move, can’t _breathe_ in his own apartment, he can’t pick up a newspaper or climb into bed without running into England. England knows him inside and out. It’s the infuriating truth since the childhood love of forever ago, and don’t you keep your enemies close, after all? Too much to endure for long, not with them, and England — England is stifling, not out of any deliberate malice but simply in that he leaves France exhausted with him, annoyed and _bored_. 

France does not resent this once his temper settles; it is the way of matters with them and there’s a kind of comfort in knowing one is on equal ground. England slams the door on his way out. 

Neither does he worry at first. England is England, and some things do not change. Deep in his core France knows that beneath the habitual ire that comes from being too much alike, they’ve a strange, aching fondness between them, older than peace agreements and older than the sex. It is as inexorable as the turning of decades: long stretches of enmity and seeing others in the meantime. They both need to _breathe_ somehow. And they seldom apologise, but someone will call and someone (they take turns, really) will say _come back, I miss you_ , and. And it’s a beginning. 

He waits.

England doesn’t call. 

Prussia (who has too much time on his hands) discovers him one afternoon, takes one look at France — just one — and drags him to Berlin. France avoids Germany as much as he can; he doesn’t want to see Germany right now, not when the television in their house boasts a channel in French, not with the ministers in Parliament throwing around words like _Franco-German cooperation and friendship_ on the news.

So he hides in the basement with Prussia and in the evenings they go round all the bars and clubs. Here, in an unfamiliar city with a guide as hedonistic as himself, France is in his element. Prussia makes him laugh, they call up Spain a few times and Prussia hits on all the men and women everywhere they go till France is sniggering into his glass. It’s all good until he kisses Prussia on the mouth after a night of heavy drinking. 

‘France, go home,’ Prussia tells him wearily, a lonely shadow slumped over the bar when France looks back. He’s had a long stay and Germany is getting impatient. France knows the two of them well, but not _too_ well, and Germany has a lot on his hands nowadays like all of them, frowning over breakfast and _Die Zeit_.  He snaps at his brother sometimes, as nearly anyone would — but Germany is different, for Germany doesn’t know Prussia will never yell back that _I raised you_ so shut the fuck up and show some respect. On his last night there France jolts awake at four, cold with the dull ache of memory, and stares at the ceiling till dawn. 

It rains (no, it _pours_ ) in Berlin and it’s heavy on the windows of his cab, like England, like London.

* * *

Whenever France visits England in London unannounced, it entirely depends on one thing: England has a habit of going out and leaving his door unlocked. This is partly because he sometimes locks his own keys inside his flat by accident, and partly because having been an empire tends to leave one unafraid of burglars. 

He’s hoping England will already have gone out for the evening. France is never sure if England will let him in of his own accord, and considering the current state of things between them it isn’t likely. The door opens easily when he pushes on it, though, and France sighs with relief, followed by a pang when he remembers that England didn’t trust him with the key to his London flat. Even though he slipped his own key into England’s pocket after the last one-night-stand of many, France doubts England kept it. 

It may or may not be lying in a black bin down an empty alley in London’s East End beneath several layers of pizza boxes and rubbish, but France doesn’t know that. 

London’s most honoured residence (although London doesn’t know it) has a look of being lived in but not loved: England is nostalgic at heart, loves sprawling manors in the countryside, the sweetness of an English garden. Teacups and the traces of faded glory. France slips inside as softly as possible — lights off, television flickering — and idly notes the sliver of gold under the bedroom door and England’s keys on the table, dangling from the miniature TARDIS which England feigns indifference for but secretly loves. A quick walk to Tesco around the corner for his beloved cheap liquor; France is prepared to wait. 

He amuses himself by studying the shelves. 

The paper is peeling and the wood cracked, sagging under the weight of years. Tolkien rubs shoulders with P.G. Wodehouse; Shakespeare is keeping vigil in his nation’s absence alongside the works of Terry Pratchett and — France blinks — _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_. England never fails to surprise him. A few books have been autographed by writers long dead. They’re the most yellowed and crumbling of the lot, lovingly kept although he can barely make out the print. 

France wants very badly to know whether England reads medieval French literature (as he’s long suspected), but his quiet exploration is interrupted by the front door slamming shut. 

He ducks into the kitchen, France is not ready to face England yet, oh God, not yet. England’s footsteps pass along the corridor — he’s whistling softly to himself, some military tune that hits France like a gunshot — then turn back towards the door and stop as he lines up his shoes beside the cupboard. He doesn’t pause again when he goes past the kitchen, allowing France to breathe again, for if England knew France was hiding in his home the kitchen would be the first place he’d check. After a few minutes France hears the screech of pipes followed by water running. 

He crawls out from behind the counter and steels himself.

So this is what it feels like to be within another nation’s borders without war or invasion: just very small, reflective. France finds himself alert but not on guard, an odd sort of balance, really, a tension. A — a closeness in the intertwining of cultures, years upon years upon years. Now that he is not occupied with England’s presence he can notice this — the strange sense of being surrounded by another’s people, with just enough between them to not be wholly alien, yet still, somehow, on edge. When France focuses a little, he is distantly aware of the sheets of rain coming down over Marseille and political chatter on national television. A pair of lovers kissing on a park bench. The cough of a tourist echoing in the galleries of the Louvre. 

France makes up his mind. 

England emerges with dripping hair to find France standing in front of his bookshelves, reading a French tale of Sir Lancelot written sometime in the twelfth century. There’s a lengthy silence as he takes in the sight before England says, in the voice France learned long ago meant that he was about to die a quick and painful death when he least expected it,

‘This is a surprise. You usually wait until we’re both drunk and shag before you try anything.’ 

No shock, or greeting with an insult. He eyes the brittle wood which separates them; England’s eyes and mouth are of stone. France wants to say _bonsoir_ , with a brilliant melting smile, and make it all new. He swallows, instead. ‘England —’ 

‘Get out.’

‘I’m not leaving. Give me a chance. I only wanted to talk.’ 

‘No. No, _fuck_ you,’ England snaps. He’s trembling and France steps forward and England steps _back_ , away from him, which _hurts_ , ‘you could have anyone you wanted, you know that full well, so bugger off and leave me alone why don’t you? You, you flirt with everyone and everything and you don’t even realise it, you don’t know what it makes me feel. I swear you’re in love with half the world, I — get out! Come back when you’re ready to be serious and stop whoring yourself out to everyone who gives you the time of day —’ 

‘I never —’ 

‘— and I will not, I won’t do this over again, see if I care!’ 

‘Stop,’ France says. ‘I came here because I didn’t want to fight with you.’ 

He turns away and goes back into the kitchen, running the taps in the sink and listening to the small, telltale movements of England outside. It’s easy to check the drawers and the refrigerator, to trace the rim of the stove with a fingertip, mechanically. England stopped cooking for himself after he began this — whatever it is — with France, but now the kitchen is stocked with finger food and packets of takeaway sit on the countertop. There are scorch marks on both sides of the saucepans when France looks. 

England pokes his head into the kitchen an hour later, but France is half in and half out of the cupboards doing God-knows-what, and his hair falls too long over his face for England to read his expression. It’s nightfall when England finds him on the balcony. 

Now France sees that England chose this flat because it gives him a good view of the Thames. He remembers — champagne, and boats moving on the gold-lit water, and slumps against the railing without much of his customary poise. 

‘I can’t promise you anything,’ France tells the cold air on his other side, ‘you must know that. Promises mean nothing to our kind.’ 

England says nothing, and pushes past him without looking. 

A short while afterwards he tries again: 

‘I keep coming back to you for a reason.’ 

England sighs and it’s like the wind, the breeze moving gently now over the surface of the Thames. ‘History.’ 

‘History.’

‘What if we were human?’

‘England,’ France laughs, and England’s footsteps drift in the direction of the bedroom but France can tell he’s listening, ‘that would be impossible. I have hated you for the length of several human lifetimes.’ 

England joins him at last, on the couch. France stretches easy and relaxed and soft, and dangles his feet over the armrest, lazily. The tourists visiting the Louvre have left, laughing, and returned arm-in-arm to their hotel. France thinks his people will do fine without him, just for tonight.

England’s hand wanders from the back of the couch to his hair — they are nearly the same height, but France is lying against him, head on his shoulder — curls briefly into a fist, as if considering, then opens again into a caress. Measured and deliberate. Thank God they are well-versed in one another by now. France is reminded of the infrequent days when they weren’t wary of each other, mornings spent exploring their museums and bridges in a fragile affectionate peace. 

‘Mmm.’ He buries his face in England’s neck, presses sluggish kisses all along the line of his throat. ‘Do that again.’ 

‘I don’t like my own history very much,’ England tells him vaguely, half-pensive, a small irrelevant thought because who does? France thinks of battles lost and won and treaties signed with the flourish of a pen, and nods, hums, _yes_. 

It isn’t much more than this — a bit disjointed perhaps, a soft, amused contentment when they are too tired to fight any more. Too tired to be angry, or hurt. The television stutters to life. They’ll talk about — oh, nothing in particular, cautiously dredging up snippets of shared memory when it suits them. A quiet understanding. 

They have had a lot of moments like these.

‘I could,’ says England very lowly, as they’re tangled on the couch, sharing breath and warmth. ‘We could, I think. Go back to the way we were before,’ and France looks sharply at him. ‘Just.’ His fingers jerk in France’s hair and he elaborates with some sharpness, ‘Save you the trouble, wouldn’t it.’ 

France’s eyes narrow. ‘No.’ 

‘You would love it. You wouldn’t be tied down to anything. You’d be sharing a bed with the rest of them in your spare time and being perfectly happy.’

‘I could,’ France agrees levelly, ‘but I won’t.’ He smirks. ‘Just for you.’ 

‘Oh, shut up, you arrogant sod. I’m serious —’

‘If I ever tired of you in all our history of finding new ways to rip each other limb from limb,’ France continues as if he hasn’t heard him, and grins briefly, at some gruesome and enjoyable remembrance, ‘I would’ve abandoned you long ago. I have had plenty of time, after all. I would have left you to grow old and die alone in your miserable, rainy hole full of your eyebrows and bad food.’ 

‘How considerate. Permit me to burn off your own eyebrows and feed them to you —’ 

‘I see you still haven’t learned any manners since I first met you. I haven’t _finished_ yet, shut up.’ France sits up and stretches again, and then gets up, knocking England unceremoniously off the couch. England follows as France pads across the cold floor towards the kitchen. ‘I thought once, you know, I could just ignore you completely outside of the bedroom. That is the common etiquette for arrangements that are purely sex, no? There was one time, when we had just started sleeping together, that I stopped speaking to you at meetings or returning your calls and I am sorry for that. It was very unpleasant. I don’t think it will happen again.’ 

England leans in the doorway and watches France mess around in his kitchen.

‘And?’ 

France swivels round abruptly, holding a bottle of beer from England’s fridge in one hand and pointing the bottle opener at him in a lethal fashion. Out of sheer instinct, England picks up one of the pans to defend himself. ‘And that is why I will not, as you say, _bugger off and leave you alone_.’ (He mimics the words in a very French accent and England rolls his eyes.) ‘Because, England, you annoy me intensely and much as I would love to shut you out and see you shrivel away from the lack of my attention, every time I see you I want to either wipe that smug smile off your face — the look you have when you think you’ve got one over on me, _oui_ , you’re doing it now, stop it — or fuck you senseless. Perhaps both. When you do not know it you are really quite delicious.’ 

He opens the beer bottle with a loud _crack_ and England flinches. 

‘You’ve always been around, you realise, you’re there when I need you and when I _really don’t_. You meddlesome, ridiculous fool,’ now France’s tone is very nearly indulgent. He looks up at England this time, sidelong, oddly vulnerable.

‘I would like to keep it that way.’ 

 _Oh_ , says England, without opening his mouth. _Oh_. 

He needs to — to say something, but it’s all gone quite blank and stunned, and France is looking at him with slightly raised eyebrows which invariably means he is about to slip out of his serious mood and start mocking England as is their routine. The only thing that comes out eventually is, ‘I. That’s — fine. With me.’ 

‘Eloquent,’ France says.

Then England adds, sourly, because the thought is sitting in his mouth and it may eat him alive if he doesn’t spit it out, 

‘We get sick of each other so quickly and then we don’t speak for months. Years. Afterwards we start over.’ France is giving him a long unreadable look, and he presses forward. ‘Do you really want to — do, you know, that? That’s — when we live as long as we do, that’s your bloody commitment.’ 

‘Yes,’ says France, after a second’s pause in which England stares at the tiles directly above his head. ‘I know. But we can still try.’ 

‘But we always —’ 

‘Ah, but I never want to stop seeing you, you understand.’ France hands him the opened bottle, ignoring how England has gone still and his whole expression has suddenly softened. ‘I have done enough thinking about this while you were gone. And there’s your answer. Here, drink up, it is getting late.’ 

The last hesitation is a fleeting thing, before England takes the bottle, with the ghost of a smile he tries to hide and thinks France doesn’t see. ‘I’ll blame tomorrow’s hangover on you.’ He turns and his voice, softer now, floats in from outside while France trails behind. 

‘Long-winded, rambling, terribly worded and full of utter _bollocks_ as always, France. You know you could just have said yes for an answer. I can’t stand talking to you.’

‘Better than sitting alone and talking to your imaginary creatures on a dull and wet afternoon in this wretched place. Which is to say every afternoon.’ France pushes up to him, heavy on the worn cushions; he’s long and pale under the hall light, hair like champagne, like gold. ‘Mmm, but I had to convince you. I know you wanted that answer.’ 

Maybe, for England scowls from force of habit more than anything, a wonder in the absurd downward quirk of his mouth. It’ll be good for a tease later on — when they are not quite so close, cuddled up against each other in the sweetness following a make-up. Not yet, not tonight. They have had so many of these moments but they seem to come rarely, with France and England being France and England, with plenty of slaps and insults in between. France falls in and out of love as swiftly and easily as a Saturday afternoon, he adores different people in different ways, he can never choose — but now, he thinks perhaps it’ll be different, this time around, and he will stay longer. It is always new every time.

He does not say _je t’aime_ simply because it is so common. Beside him, England mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _idiot_ , and his mouth is very tender, where it brushes over France’s temple. 

**Author's Note:**

> Die Zeit is the most widely read newspaper in Germany, something like The Times. France is reading Le Chevalier de la Charrette, which is French, and also the first major appearance of Lancelot in Arthurian legend.


End file.
